My work exudes inferiority
Aesthetically pleasing fragments cobbled together
Halfbaked ideas trying to become conviction
Most messages works of fiction
The balance beam I’ve fallen off of
Between elitism and redundancy
All these cords missed trying to be profound
You have to rhyme
But not all the time
Because that would be childish
You run the risk
Of your metaphor lacking depth
I’ve grown adept at saying words so they have the right pacing
Wasting ink crossing out mistakes
Retakes done over and over
Is it moing enough?
Is it real enough?
Is it original enough?
Is it good enough?
Is it long enough?
Length has never been my strength
Has my search tainted my work?
I should be writing but I'm not
Planting themes never truly explored
Introducing new things so you don't get bored
And realize that this is all
Cynicism paraded as realism
Where's the positivity
It's a part of me not meant for here
Let's make one thing clearet
Happy isn't meant for my poems
This is catharsis
So I can grow
You have to let go of the past
It never works
My feelings get trapped
Because no one wants to hear all this frustration
You can't use I
It has to be relatable
Anger shouldn't be one size fits all
Waiting for the right words feelings idle
Like a car sitting in the closed garage
Your intentiins are hazy
Your brain fazed
What were you trying to say?
The meanings misconstrued
This was supposed to be powerful
Now it's just echoes of what someone else said
To lost in your own head
There is such a thing as too much perspective
I should be writing.